Author: Alexander Fawn

It being summer, the ground in the back garden was baked really hard.

She felt a terrible loss when her poodle died. It was getting old and had a number of issues, so she could see it coming. She had done everything the vet had suggested, but finding it absolutely still in its basket that morning was inevitable. She already felt the loneliness creeping in; the awful loss of her much loved companion. He’d always maintained that there would be no replacement. A grave needed to be dug regardless of how hard it was to dig. Now, he was out there pounding at the ground, complaining. You’d have to say that she was a calm and placid woman, and that he was an angry complainer. She had loved her dog. He hadn’t.

She watched from the kitchen window as he struck with the spade over and over, cursing with every blow. Regardless of her knowing what sort of reception she’d get, she thought it only right, despite the day’s heat, to go out and offer support. When she came close, she could see he’d made some progress; the hole was half dug. He stopped and straightened his back. His face was bright red and covered with sweat.

He bellowed, “Don’t just stand there, get me a glass of water!”

She hurried indoors. With an empty glass in her hand, she sat sobbing gently. She could no longer hold down her grief. His shouting at her didn’t help. After a few minutes, she stood, feeling more composed. She filled the glass and went back out.

He was just lying there, one arm in the grave, eyes and mouth wide open.

She stood for a moment, sipping the water. She had only one thought going through her head.

Before too long, she’d be visiting the pet shop!

They were a strange couple.

Neither of their parents had ever been tracked down. If they had been, they wouldn’t want to meet them. They were not a sociable couple. They never really mixed. She had never collected stamps, too much interaction with others. He wouldn’t know how to hang glide; it meant meeting people. Neither of them had ever seen the Sagano Bamboo Forests in Japan, although they often talked about it, they both wanted to, but they would have had to spend time with other tourists. She had never gone shopping during busy periods, in case she met someone. Pubs were out for him; much too crowded. If truth be told, although a twosome, they had as little to do with each other as possible. In fact, they rarely spoke to one another.

To facilitate this lack of togetherness, they each had their own cars. That was until her vehicle broke down and he had to drive her out to her special, lonely spot out of town, where she would go to knit. It was while travelling there that it happened that completely out of the blue and without any warning, she went to say something. This event had such a profound effect on him that he lost control of the vehicle, sending it through a hedge, across a field into a farmer’s hay barn, where it smashed into a metal support and the engine exploded. Within moments of the flames taking hold, bales of hay dislodged by the impact began tumbling down. In no time at all, the whole thing became a blazing inferno.

Later, by some queer dint in the fabric of what might be called the rich tapestry of life, their ashes, for that’s all there was now, were not labelled correctly. This brought about a situation where there was doubt about who was who.

Two urns; half in each.

They mixed.

It was his last night.

It was on this final night that the power plant operator went on shift, that the events occurred. It’s safe to say that from the beginning he had feelings that he was definitely not used to. The only certainty being that it was destined to be the last nightshift he did for the power company. Whether this in itself was a planned departure from the job or something else is not known. However, it was the last time he’d be parking behind the main station building. Minutes later, he was swiping his ID card through the reader. That’s when it began. At first, it was only a vague feeling that something was not quite right. Then, minutes later, at the locker and getting ready to change into his coveralls, the sensation that something unexpected was about to happen swept over him. He had never had this sort of presentiment before and had no idea where it came from.

He’d had an auntie who used to go on about this sort of thing. She was always talking about getting warnings about stuff that was foreboding or evil. Of course, he’d never taken it seriously. Why should he? You really can take this nonsense too far, he thought, as he climbed to the upper gallery where the bank of controls waited for him. It was there that he would check, record, and occasionally make adjustments. With clipboard in hand, he began running through the standard check sheet when he noticed a digital display giving a strange readout.

Looking down, he saw that the main lever was in the upright, neutral position. It could be moved to either the left or the right. Looking back at the digital reading, he knew that some corrective action should be taken. He thought hard about his initial training regarding the lever. In all his time on the job, he had never had reason to touch it. Shaking his head, he realised that to his knowledge, it had never been moved. Because of this, his memory concerning its use had faded away. He rested his index finger on its rounded top and stood, quite complexed by the situation.

It was then that he heard it. More correctly, he felt it; a waft of cold air coming from behind him. Instinctively he turned. What he saw, although very hard to make out, was the faint outline of a figure, who seemed to be leaning back on the upper deck’s safety rail shaking its head.

The operator stood frozen for a minute or to, unable to speak or think. Finally, taking in a huge breath, he managed to close his mouth and swallow. He was about to speak, when he was interrupted.

Whatever it was, it suddenly stepped forward and began whispering to him. “Have you ever considered how often throughout the course of human history a major disaster has come about as a result of a person misunderstanding the instructions they were given?”

The man shut his eyes, slowly shaking his head. Was he being lectured to, by some ethereal phantom? He couldn’t believe his own stupidity. Annoyed with himself for these wild imaginings and for being taken in, although only briefly, by such ludicrous claptrap, he turned back to the control panels with renewed resolve.

He took hold of the lever and gave it a good yank…

She was a deeply religious woman who took loving care of her garden.

All was as it should be in her little slice of heaven. It was that time of year when flowers were being pollinated and the birds and the bees were preparing to start families. Whereas she had no objection to the many creatures in her paradise responding appropriately during the mating season, it did trouble her when she learnt the common name for a particular spider.

It has to be said that her strict pedanticism, almost as strong as her religious beliefs, had her thoroughly familiar with the binomial names of the species of living things that dwelt by the grace of God, in her sacred garden. It was only when she discovered the common name for the Pholcus phalangioides that she began carrying a small spray bottle with her while walking in the garden.

Whenever she came across a pair of them doing what came naturally, she could be heard to mutter, “tut, tut”, and sprayed them with poison.

He was at the very back of the field behind their property.

He liked playing there sometimes, especially during school holidays when the family wasn’t going away; it was very quiet there. Although the field was owned by his parents, along with the house and a separate garage, it wasn’t used. The grass had been left to grow tall and wild. This suited him because he liked walking through it, as though he was fighting his way through a jungle. Along the back fence there were small patches of open ground. It was in one of these that he found the tiny cross. He’d not noticed it before and wondered whether it was put there recently. Looking closer he could see that it was a little wooden cross made out of pop sticks. He wondered, was it a grave or a cross marking buried treasure? Either way, it was intriguing. He pulled it out and began digging with his fingers.

He hadn’t dug very far when he hit something solid. Cleaning it off it seemed to be round and made of metal. When he tried lifting it up, he found that it was attached to something. He found a stick and began loosening the soil around it. Finally, when he pulled it out, he could see it was a jar.

He sat looking at it. Someone had buried a jar; how unusual, he thought. He started to brush the soil off and saw that it had something inside. It looked like a tiny piece of paper. It took all his strength to loosen the lid. He tipped the thing out onto his hand. It was a postage stamp. It had been used, and it was franked with black ink markings. It looked foreign. He put it in his pocket, screwed the lid back on, pushed dirt back into the hole and made his way back to the house.

He had decided to say nothing about it when he got in. It could be his special secret, for a while at least. He lay in bed that night looking at the stamp. The faded images on it gave no clue as to what country it came from. He couldn’t understand why anybody would bury it like that. Maybe it was precious? It could be a rare stamp worth a lot of money. If that was the case, someone could return and find it gone; find that it had been stolen! With those thoughts beginning to trouble him, he decided that tomorrow he’d put it back. He would bury it and leave it as he found it. What did he do with the cross? He couldn’t remember. He would look for it in the morning.

He found it as soon as he got there, just where he must have dropped it. He dug the jar up and was brushing it off when he heard it rattle. Opening it up, he found a button. It was made of plastic with the colours and shape of a daisy. This, he thought, was an exciting find. This meant that somehow he was being given things! Soon after, he put the button in his pocket with the stamp. He put the jar back in the ground and went in.

The following day he returned to the spot and uncovered the jar. He was confident that he’d find something. He was right! This time it was a very small red plastic teaspoon. It looked as though it had been part of a children’s tea set. It was only small, but it could actually be quite useful, he thought. When he’d returned the jar and tidied the ground up he sat thinking about it. This had been the third day. The third day of finding things. School holidays would be over soon. Will he keep finding things? He counted the days on his fingers. There were just five days to go before school goes back.

Every morning he trekked his way through the field to the spot near the back fence. Every day he found something new. The next item was a shiny blue marble. He could definitely use that. This was followed by a small wooden spinning top, that spun for a long time before falling over. Then it was a toy car with wheels that all turned freely and worked fine. The next was a pearl with a hole through it. It must have come from a necklace. It could be valuable, he thought.

On the final day he went to the clearing, knowing that school began again the next day. He wondered whether whoever was putting new things there for him to find, knew that? He would probably never know. Once again, he dug the jar up and screwed off the lid. He tipped the contents out into his hand and dropped it immediately! It was a cockroach with a pin stuck through it!

There can be no doubt about it.

Some gremlins are really sick!

The young inventor had always had an unhealthy interest in terrorism.

So, when he had finally perfected his hand-held time transporter, it seemed perfectly natural that he should want to return to some of the more exciting moments to witness them first hand. He was thrilled by events that most would find repulsive. This being the case, it came about that he, a twenty-something genius, programmed his device to do just that. The tiny dial that was designed to rotate anti-clockwise and send him into the past, sat on the upper black dot representing present time. Although this control was not marked up with any great accuracy, it would, he felt, find events based on the microchip’s programming. As a result of this, he started his journey into these past events by rotating the knob very slowly.

Swish! He’d been jettisoned back several years. Pakistan, December 16, 2014, the Peshawar school attack. Taliban gunmen were attacking a school. He remembered the event, with government troops ending the siege, but not before 141 people died. He stood watching from a distance. He got a kick out of watching, but didn’t feel completely safe, so he tweaked the dial.

Swish again. He recognised it immediately. He was in Norway, it was July 22, 2011. These were the Norway attacks. 8 Died in the Oslo bombing and 69 on the nearby island of Utoya. When he’d seen enough, he turned the dial.

With a flash, he was in Mumbai. It was November 26, 2008. Buildings were being stormed by a terrorist group. These attacks would kill 164 people. He was fascinated. After a while, he moved on.

Instantly, he was there for the Delhi Blasts, October 29, 2005. Bombs placed in bags in busy places, killing 67 people. He had hardly touched the control when he jumped back just a few more months.

Suddenly, he was there for the London Bombings, July 7, 2005. Four suicide bombers, rucksacks with explosives. He knew that shortly after this came more bomb attacks on the 21st, targeting the city’s transport system, with 52 dying. He was enthralled with the sight of so much chaos. He made another adjustment.

Madrid now, the train bombings, March 11, 2004. Coordinated bombings against the commuter train system. Leaving 192 people dead. He just watched, with no thought given to the misery unfolding. Tweak.

Istanbul, November 15, 2003, with more coming five days later. Four truck bomb attacks, 57 dead. Another tweak.

Moscow, the Dubrovka Theatre Siege, October 23, 2002. Rebels storming a theatre with a two-and-a-half day siege to follow, killing 170 people. Tweak again.

Now, the United States. The World Trade Centre attack in New York, September 11, 2001. An extremist group hijacking passenger planes and flying them into the towers of the World Trade Centre, leaving 2,996 people dead. Whereas, most people would find his interest in such things to be prurient, he was enjoying himself immensely.

It was then, although well back from the action, he became aware of a great wall of dark grey dust sweeping towards him. He had to move quickly, but in his panic, he fumbled with the device. Dialling back to present time as soon as possible, he had twisted the control around to the stop, but held on to it for several seconds. If he’d only had the presence of mind to look at his tiny screen before it went blank, he would know what year it was. Looking around, he realised that he was somewhere he’d never been before. It was not a country he recognised. Was this in fact still planet Earth?

All he knew was, somehow his programming had brought him here. He found himself looking up at the entrance of the Museum of Terrorist History. He entered and was pleased to find that the lady at the front desk spoke English. Nevertheless, he had no idea what country he was in. Strolling around looking at the artefacts, only a few of which he recognised, his attention was drawn to the labels. Considering the fact that he was looking at the past, everything technological was, well, so extremely advanced! It had all gone way passed the science of digital technology. Not only that, the dates they showed were simply unbelievable! He was no longer in the twenty-first century, but had been shot forward some one hundred and fifty odd years!

Outside again and in a daze, he looked down at his screen. It was blank. His three little batteries were obviously flat. He had enquiries to make. He went back inside and spoke first to the woman at the desk, who seemed not to understand him at all, then the curator. After a fruitless conversation with him, he found himself outside again; this time sitting on the steps.

He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that the one thing he could be really sure about was the knowledge that he had absolutely no chance of buying a ‘triple A’ battery any time soon!

You could say he had been in trouble all his life.

Crime became part of his life as a teenager. Then, over a period of three decades he had climbed the ladder to serious crime. Enterprises with bigger and bigger stakes, with underworld figures expecting more and more from him. It was apparent to anybody who knew him that breaking the law came easily to him. However, this being true did not explain why, in general terms, he wasn’t very good at it. It had to be something just short of a miracle that the law had never caught up with him. By some devious means his bosses had always managed to protect him. This was something that was continually pointed out to him. A benefit that he should recognise and be truly grateful for.

Then came the moment, the realisation, the breaking of the ensnaring circle. That moment when he removed his glove and left a single print.

Now, no more fear or insecurity. No more jumping when the phone rang. No more trying to decide who were his friends and who where his enemies. No more knocking at the door in the early hours. No more feeling unsafe. No more lying. No more hiding. No more hurting people. No more doing bad things…

The sound of heavy metal doors clanging shut was music to his ears. This was his refuge.

How he loves his new life… in prison.

The woman in the bank seemed to be biding her time.

She was crouched over a withdrawal slip, but she continually eyed the male teller who was serving a customer at the end of the counter. His queue was getting shorter. She edged her way along the side wall of the bank until she was opposite him. She waited until the last of them had moved off, then walked forward quickly.

She smiled. He just nodded. She drew the folded paper from her pocket and slid it through to him. He picked it up and read… ‘I want you to stay calm. I want two hundred dollars in twenties. Be as quick as you can. Do not use the alarm and I promise no one will get hurt.’

At first he looked around. He seemed to be unsure about how he should react. After a few moments, remaining expressionless, he began collecting the demanded notes.

With a sigh, he pushed the money across.

She giggled as she stuffed the money into her purse.

He wasn’t smiling. He leant forward.

“Honey, do we have to go through this charade every week?”

The book, full of memories, quietly rots undisturbed by those who made it.

In a way, it’s a multi-media scrap book, put together by all members of a loving family from long ago. It is crammed with writings about family events, milestones and so on. It contains photographs, certificates and recipes; all things deemed to be relevant for those who contributed to its making. The rotting thing sits with other books, saved newspapers and magazines, at the bottom of an old cardboard box, to rot in the dampness of the roof-leaking attic. Despite the hours of loving care that went into the building of it, its newly evolved purpose and value has become that of source of food. It is sustenance for those ever-present, yet hardly ever seen creatures, that inhabit such places.

Meanwhile, in this abandoned place, these long forgotten and once treasured memories are being masticated by a small insect. This relatively harmless little, wingless insect just loves chewing away at paper. Being something of a scavenger, it really loves and often finds such titbits that are covered with mould; its favourite.

What is not known about the creature is what follows digestion and what happens during its subsequent sleep period. In this state, its dreams are peppered with thoughts, events, ideas and news items; all from its latest meal.

However, it’s true that on occasion the dreams had by a Book Louse can be quite lousy!

It goes without saying that humans have never discovered a way to know what goes on in their heads. It is doubtful whether anyone has ever tried and even more doubtful that anyone has even thought of it. That’s the clincher, you see, right there!

So obvious, when you come to think about it.

The young man had a keen interest in politics from a very early age.

He was in his late teens when his interest in the subject seemed to focus on the middle-east. It was during his university studies that things began to fall apart for him. In hindsight, you’d have to say that he struggled more and more with the fact that he was finding that he had more questions than answers. Unhappily, the plethora of ideas has brought him to his current situation. He is sitting at his little table covered with several versions of maps of the middle-east, along with the latest copies of all of the major newspapers, eking out everything he can about what is going on out there.

The two men were talking.

The first man asked, “Why is his jacket so dirty?”

The other replied, “Oh! A bit of an accident at dinner.”

“Anyway, how did your little chat go?” said the first.

The other shrugged and said, “Um. A bit complicated. It started out relatively straightforward with him asking for more maps, then he went on to explain that he simply wants the Americans to love the Jews and the Arabs, he wants the Arabs to love the Jews and the Americans, and he wants the Jews to love the Americans and the Arabs.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again, but he did go on to say that he’s also concerned about the Iranians, the Turks, the Kurds, the Berbers, the Azeris, the Greeks, the Armenians and the Nubians. He said that if any of them have any differences between them, they should patch things up!”

The two men in the white coats stepped back from the observation window and faced one another. The senior doctor said, “Well, at least he’s broadening his thinking. In the meantime, we’ll get him cleaned up. Have him restrained while they get a clean straightjacket on him.”